


On the Cusp. The Hem (or: Two Megapixel Hero)

by the_oscar_cat



Category: Supernatural RPS
Genre: Kilts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-26
Updated: 2011-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-19 19:25:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_oscar_cat/pseuds/the_oscar_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary (curtesy of <a href="http://helpwess.livejournal.com/">helpwess</a>): "Well, jensen should have known what he was getting into, ie, sending hot pictures of your neck will result in an apartment full of giant and dogs."</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Cusp. The Hem (or: Two Megapixel Hero)

**Author's Note:**

> [Ten Inch Hero is a film that Jensen was part of over the summer.](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0829297/)  
> [These](http://community.livejournal.com/ten_inch_hero/941.html#cutid1) are the only photos currently available of his character, Priestly. (Actually there is one more [here](http://pics.livejournal.com/the_oscar_cat/pic/0003g0a1/g20) that a fan took during the shoot.)
> 
> HUGE thank yous to [helpwess](http://helpwess.livejournal.com/) and [Damson](http://damson.livejournal.com/) \- this fic would not exist if they hadn’t put up with my ramblings, answered all my questions and generally kept me on the right path for the last two months. They make me a much better writer than I could ever hope to be, writing alone.
> 
> Any mistakes that remain are mine. *tackle hugs you ladies TO THE GROUND*

The first picture is pretty blurred and doesn't make a whole lotta sense. It looks kinda like a small woodland creature, all up-close, like Jensen fell on it or something and the camera in his phone went off.

Ten minutes later Jared's phone buzzes again and there is a fucking ear next to the maybe-squirrel. Two more minutes and there’s what can only be the underside of Jensen's chin thick with hair. Another minute and there’s the side of his head, hair cropped real short, and his skin all kinda tanned or something. Jared slaps his hand on the arm of the sofa he's laughing so hard, and two dog-heads shoot up from their curl. He scritches between pointy ears and scrolls through his phonebook. These suckers need forwarding right now.

He’ll deny feeling anything else of course, because he – unlike *some* people – is sticking to the rules. But, man, he’s pretty frickin’ glad Jensen broke the silence.

Stupid silence. It started with a dumb conversation about hiatus that Jared can’t much remember. Just the phrase ‘not joined at the hip, dude’ and he’d found himself agreeing with a cold chill in his belly. A slurred ‘sure, no you’re right’ and a stupid rule about how he’d leave Jensen be, do his own thing –

‘Gotta go see the folks anyways, man. Promised my daddy I’d help him out…’

It wasn’t like they were together or anything. Friends, sure - *best* friends – but handjobs fuelled by beer and caffeine and the second wind of another fourteen hour day didn’t amount to much when you looked at it like that.

He’d been busy too. There’d been people to see – his family and old friends from school who treated him just as they ever did. He’d hung with Chad and then escaped to a safe distance to watch the fireworks explode.

And now he’s just spending at bit of time in LA. Getting his shit together. Gearing up for another year.

It’s not like two hours later all he can think about is the edge of a grin, sneaking into one of the shots.

\---

"You're crazy." Jared says, but it comes out "Yer." He's elbow-deep in a paper sack full of dry dog food, his phone smushed between his chin and shoulder.

"Oh you have no idea." Jensen is tinny as fuck and there is a ton of background noise.

He's been 'recording' the shoot of Ten Inch Hero by camera-phone for the last three days. Fuzzy photos of the edge of shit-kicker soles and woven plaid. Jared snorts a decent noseful of coffee at one image in particular that comes far to early in the morning - a closeup of Jen's nose, his full top lip pulled tight over his teeth, a small manicured strip of skin splitting his moustache, a fuzzy caterpillar underneath each nostril.

*How'ja like them apples?* buzzes through as a text message while Jared is still re-learning how to breathe.

\---

It's not that Jensen normally plays fair or anything, but this time Jared thinks he's really ratcheted up the evil. The shot in question can't be anything other than the cord of his neck pulled tight, inky black lines curling their way across his skin. Jared pointedly avoids pushing the heal of his hand into his shorts, and instead takes the mutts running till both he and they’re exhausted, kinda numb and gasping for air.

A wank in the shower later and he's texting *Gonna have to do better than that, Ackles.*

\---

His phone is quiet for a good eight hours after that, right through the day and into the evening. Jared watches a movie, sorts out his laundry, and then shops for groceries and more dog chow. He chucks a bottle of half-decent whisky into his cart on a whim. His phone stays in his back pocket and sometimes he holds his hand to it, sure of a vibration he can't actually hear through his ipod headphones. But there are no messages.

It wakes him at two am though, buzzing again and again against a background of late night ESPN and Jared's sleep-fuzzy brain. He pulls the phone out and rests it on his stomach while he unlocks the settings. It takes a couple of goes, even though he's had the phone a good eight months.

*4 new photos*

The first is maybe a boot, but there is also flecked-grey wool or something. There are splatters of mud on the leather - grey and brown - and thick black laces pulled around and around, tied in a heavy clump of knot.

The second shows the same laces, boots laced from halfway down, the cuff of a woollen sock in the gap left by the gaping leather, and the edge of hairy skin that can only be Jensen's hairy-ass calf.

By comparison the next one doesn't make any sense. There’s a mangled edge of what looks like a teeshirt, and maybe fucking pleats or something? Jared scratches his belly and thumbs-scrolls the phone controls down.

The last shot is, freakily, almost the same angle as his own body, showing down over Jensen's stomach and all the way to those big damn boots. But Jared is fixated by the now hitched-up edge of the tee, on the inky black lines that arc around his navel, that slide under the edge of his... oh god... his kilt or someshit, and Jared is way too hot, can't breathe, fucked up because this has been going on for *days* now and...

fuck.

There are Jensen's knees, half hidden by the thick woollen fabric, slightly parted as if he had to steady himself to take the shot.

Fuck.

Jared holds it together long enough to reply with a slightly wobbly photo of his middle finger. Then he's gathering up the dogs and grabbing his keys from their hook by the door before he realises that actually, he's not too fucking sure where Jensen is right now.

He lets Harley and Sadie into the back of the car and harnesses them up. Job done, he gets into the front and sits with his forehead pressed against the wheel. He is so supremely fucked, and it's either too early or too late, and he has no idea what to do, except that he does have one option and is pissed off enough to actually go through with it.

He pulls out of the drive and soon he's down the highway, too awake, and desperately not thinking about the phone holding those fucking photos in the front pocket of his jeans.

The road is pretty dead, and bathed in halogen-yellow pools of light that strobe overhead as he drives through them. He takes shitty too-dark photos of each exit sign and mails them out to Jensen’s number, one by one, with grim determination.

\---

Jared has been to Jensen’s LA house enough times to know that the rock propping up one side of the aloe isn’t actually real, and if you unscrew the bottom – ugh, snail – there is a spare key to his front door. The mutts pee in the bushes and run around his feet as he jabs the key into the lock and prays the alarm isn’t set. As close as they are he has no fucking idea what the code would be. He takes a photo of the open door, sends it then turns the damn phone off and throws it, and the key, down onto the mail-table.

The hallway is dark and silent except for the sniffsniff as the dogs bound ahead and inspect everything. He flicks on the light and heads for the kitchen, patting his leg to get Harl and Sadie to follow. Jensen has no bowls except cereal bowls, and they’ll have to do. He fills two with water from the faucet and sets both down by the backdoor. Jensen’s fridge contains an old carton of chinese food that does not smell good, and the last can from a sixpack of beer, the plastic holder still attached around the top. Jared pulls it off, tosses it in the sink and cracks open the can with a slight sense of ‘serves the fucker right’.

The only sound in the kitchen is the lap of the dogs drinking, and a muffled screech as Jared pulls a chair away from the breakfast bar and sits down. He’s sick to his stomach now, and the fire-instinct that got him this far, has already started to dissipate.

\---

Twenty minutes later a screech of tires is met by the mad WOOF WOOF WOOF of happy dogs who race back and forth between Jared and the front door – a ‘come look!’ that he can’t follow. Instead, he wipes his palms on the top of his jeans and gets to his feet in time to see Jensen come through the door. Just as he does he’s met with a chest full of Harley-paws, the dog’s tongue licking at the fuzz on Jensen’s cheek. Hell, the lick almost hits him in the mouth as he breaks into an amused grin, hands rubbing into the short fur at the scruff of Harley’s neck.

“Harl! Come.” But Jared’s voice cracks around the edges, betraying a lack of control he’d rather not show.

Jensen pushes Harley down and scratches at Sadie’s shoulder as she brushes past, then straightens up and tilts his head at Jared.

“Hey there, Jared.”

His voice is quiet, and slightly out of breath, like maybe he rushed a little to get a home.

If Jared ignores the eyes and the stripe of summer-freckles under them, Jensen is a stranger. His face is a canvas of manicured grizzle, with contoured edges of a short mohawk; grade one down the sides, a two inch thatch of blue down the center. A fake but fucking convincing tattoo, one that’s been burnt into the back of Jared’s mind, runs directly into a black, professionally ragged, Ramones tee which clings snugly against his biceps.

It’s weirdness, piled on top of weirdness – Jensen’s in the same room as him for the first time in weeks, months, only it’s a mutant version in a fucking *kilt* and familiar thick, dirty industrial boots.

“You ok man?” Jensen scratches the back of his head and looks far, far too fucking smug, and Jared can’t help but stare, his gaze flicking from the black lines on the underside of Jensen’s arm, to those on the thin strip of exposed stomach his stretch has revealed.

“Am I ok?” What the fuck? Jared steps forwards and suddenly the space is pretty damn easy to cross and he’s up in Jensen’s face, his finger jabbing against the thin black cotton that covers Jensen’s sternum.

“What the hell are you playin’ at?” The breath huffs out of his nose and his heart is back pounding a mile a minute. He’d been good. He’d backed off, stuck to the damn rules.

Jensen holds up his hands, not moving away, not touching Jared, and not even really in defence or anything, though he's learnt enough judo in the last year to take Jared down if he really wanted to, (or at least have a hell of a go).

He just keeps his hands raised, tilts his head and says, “Thought you might like to see my new look is all.”

Something crackles in-between them in that moment and Jared finds himself laughing, sees Jensen’s face crinkle into a full-on grin from his eyes down to the corners of his mouth, and it’s just so easy right then and there for Jared to curl his long fingers around the cotton of Jensen’s tee, pull him forwards that last inch to bite at his full bottom lip.

Jensen tastes of stale cigarettes and coffee, and Jared can feel rather than really hear the growl that comes out as he bites and licks his way into Jensen’s mouth. Jensen’s fingers hold his head, press against his skull, and Jared can feel the rub of Jensen’s thumb against the dip of his temple. There’s no resistance though when Jared pulls back, lips pushed out to grab extra bites and licks even though he’s pulling away to look Jensen in the eye and murmur “It’s one hell of a look, man.”

Jensen’s still grinning but he breaks the gaze, looks down and tilts his head to the side like maybe he’s a tiny bit bashful after all, and there’s the tattoo, stark against his neck, stretched out for Jared to see, to trace with his finger, Jensen’s eyes flickering closed at the touch.

“Wow,” he whispers and god he’s so fucking hard, feels like he’s been hard for days now, as he pets at the lines with the pad of his finger, rubs at them gingerly to see if they smudge or not. And when they don’t seem to, his finger still pretty pink, he follows up with his tongue, small licks along the ink, nipping at Jensen’s collar bone through the black cotton.

Jensen hisses out a quiet ‘fuck’, and yanks on the back collar of his own tee-shirt trying to pull it over his head, making it bunch around Jared’s face.

“Hey.” Jared grabs out with his free hand and wraps his fingers around Jensen’s elbow, stilling him. He growls into Jensen’s skin, “Quit it” and goes back to sucking at the ridge of bone where the tattoo ends, uncurling his fingers and sliding them down to rub at the exposed skin of Jensen’s belly. One final nip and then he’s on his knees, fingers spread against Jensen’s skin, mapping new lines that arc and curl over Jensen’s abs, around his navel, disappearing into the thick leather straps that are buckled around the top of the kilt.

Jensen groans and shifts his shit-kicker boots, making space for Jared between his legs. Up close Jared can smell his arousal, earth and musk buried beneath the thick fabric, and he reaches down to wrap his fingers around the firm muscle of Jensen's calf, rubs his fingers through the short wiry hair he finds there. When he looks up Jensen is staring back though half-closed eyes, and his lips part into a perfect O as Jared's fingers skim higher, across the sensitive flesh behind his knee and up underneath the kilt's bottom edge.

"Jared." It’s barely a murmur, a slurred single syllable.

Jared presses his mouth to the kilt. He can feel the rough wool against his lips, against the peeking tip of his tongue, then he presses a little further, between the folds where it’s tenting, till he can feel the hard stretch of Jensen's erection, can hear Jensen hiss again above him, voice scraping out; "Jesus Jared.”

He knows what he wants, what he wants to do to Jensen, hell he's been trying to block it out since he first saw the final picture, and he feels kinda dizzy, light-headed now the opportunity is finally right in front of him.

Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.

But his want is great, great enough for him to sweep both his hands down, one on the front of the kilt, one down the back of Jensen's thigh, around his knee till they are both pressed against the front edge of the rough woollen fabric and, sweeping upwards, palms sliding, pushing the kilt up, exposing Jensen's thighs, exposing the boundary between coarse hair and softer, smoother skin, further and further until Jensen's cock pops free, bobs against his face, and Jared opens his mouth instinctively, sloppily capturing the head with his lips and tongue.

Jensen tightens at the contact and Jared can feel him swell on his tongue, feel the thigh muscles under his palms clench. Buzzing with the power of it he wraps his lips firmly around the head alone and pushes against Jensen's skin, shuffling forwards on his knees and forcing Jensen the step or two backwards until he's pressed into the front door.

Only then does he pull back, catching Jensen’s gaze to make sure he sees just how his cock slides from Jared’s lips with a wet pop.

"That’s better." and he's grinning at the slight look of drug-lust-shock on Jensen's face, his head pressed against the door, his hands cupping Jared's jaw, and Jared can feel the tremor, the momentary hesitation to choose between pulling back or pushing forwards.

Like he has any control, and Jared grins and licks at the sack by his chin, watches it shift and roll like the body of an octopus.

"Fuck." another hiss above him, and he concentrates on long wet licks up the shaft, tasting the skin where it dips, the shelf where it becomes the head.

He mutters around it, letting the words leak out of the space around his flexed jaw, “Fair's fair”, and brushes his knuckles against the tightening skin of Jensen’s balls.

“…huh?” but it’s weak, halfhearted and Jared can feel in tiny movements how Jensen would rock against him if his hand wasn’t holding Jensen’s hip tight against the door. The knowledge makes his fingers grip tighter, and his lips slip down further, saliva pooling at the corners of his mouth.

He’ll deny it if asked – maybe, probably – but god he’s missed Jensen, missed this. Missed this weight against his tongue, and this taste in his mouth. He holds his fingers close to his lips, licks at them as his tongue circles the head of Jensen’s cock, and the knowledge of where he is, of what he’s doing – what he _wants_ to do – makes him throb, heart pounding and dizzy. He wants and wants and wants, and the summer suddenly seems so damn empty a memory. He wants to fill himself up to the brim with Jensen, make him feel even just a fraction of this want, make him realize that actually having months apart was a stupid fucking idea and can it stop now, please Jen, can it stop now?

But instead he sucks and licks and pulls, trails his wet fingers back through damp, fuzzy hair, and rubs at the crinkle of skin behind Jensen’s balls, hears Jensen moan above him, feels his spine shift and stretch, and nudges again and again, slowly, firmly, until Jensen is hot and tight pressed around his finger, then around his fingers, in and out. And Jensen’s hot and even harder against his tongue, panting and pulling, and wanting…

Jared pulls back, pulls free, pulls out, sits back on his haunches and looks up at Jensen, who is gasping, canting his hips now that there’s no hand there to stop him, pulling at the air and looking back down at Jared.

“Fuck… come _on_!”

His skin is flushed and shiny, and the kilt has gathered against his cock, a stark contrast of pink-red on green.

All Jared can think about is fucking him – all these denied thoughts that have been swallowed away for months come rushing back. Fucking this frankenstein version of his best friend, in a fucking skirt, because fate is just that weird sometimes.

And Jensen is making these noises, mutterings, pushing away from the door, and half slides, half falls to his knees in front of Jared until he’s pressed flush against him, fingers tangled tight in his hair, biting back into Jared’s mouth.

“Comeoncomeoncomeon…” garbled words spilling into Jared’s mouth, among the licks and nips and Jared wants to nod and nod and fucking manhandle him right there, regardless of everything, but he can’t, he won’t. Instead he bites at the inside of his own cheek, breathes in and out, his hands still on his thighs, and shakes his head.

“Jared… dude come on!”

More shaking, and biting, tongue licking into Jensen’s mouth, wiping out any hint of doubt that this is anywhere near over. His lips slipslide across the rough fuzz of Jensen’s cheek and murmur ‘bed’ in his ear. At his blinking, Jared trying hard to supress the roll of his eyes, because, ‘Lube, man. Bed.’

He can see it makes sense to Jensen when’s he’s pushing himself up, his fists around Jared’s shirt pulling them both across the hall. They move past the dogs who are just sniffing about, settling in, past photos framed on walls, half open doors, up a flight of stairs that makes them stumble into each other and bite at each other some more, along a darker hall and into Jensen’s room, still new in Jared’s mind; barely seen before now. They both fall onto Jensen’s huge, low bed that smells of Jensen and sleep, and washing powder.

Jared lies back, catches his breath, his fingers full of warm, damp cotton and wool, fingers pushed against skin. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again Jensen is leaning over him, and fuck, it’s still a shock to see him like this, fuzzy, and shaved and blue. It’s been so long since they’ve been this close that looking mussed up and breathless feels alien too.

“You ‘kay?” It comes out a growl, and they’re kissing and biting again, Jensen scrabbling at Jared’s belt, at the buttons on his jeans, a wrist pressed against his groin. Jared can only nod into the kiss, force Jensen’s head into a nod right along with it. He wants. He catches sight of Jensen’s guitar on its stand in the corner of the room, and wants more, wants everything so fucking much. While he can. While it’s here for the taking. Fuck everything else.

His hands move, shift until they end up full of Jensen’s thighs, naked under the kilt, sweat-damp and heated under his palms. It’s enough to have him struggling to sit back up, to curl his hands back and under Jensen’s rump, tug himself and Jensen close to sitting, his lap, his chest, his face full of Jensen’s breath, Jensen’s touch.

“…want.” and he can murmur it against Jensen’s skin and deny everything. Can grind forwards and push and push until he can get Jensen on his back, thighs gripped around Jared’s waist, Jensen staring up with heavy green eyes. Eyes that flick away for a second, a tiny nod towards the cabinet by the bed.

Jared sucks Jensen’s bottom lip into his smile, then twists just enough to get the drawer open, hand flailing around, finding nothing, until Jensen sighs and heaves himself upright enough to bat Jared’s hand away, rummages and rummages until he comes back out, small tube in his hand, triumphant. It ends up on the bed, next to Jared’s knee, joined moments later with a condom wrapped in foil.

And fuck, this is really gonna happen.

"Where were we?" Jensen is smiling, his fingers wrapped around the front of Jared's open jeans, his thumb rubbing hot against Jared's skin, making it hard to process thoughts bigger than 'yes' and 'fuck'.

Hard but not impossible, and Jared is still fighting the weird right along with the desire, the pent up want. Jensen's legs stretch out in front of him, a boot clumps over the back of Jared's knee so that he’s kneeling between them, leaving a streak of dust dirt on the bedcovers, and Jared *knows* Jensen is playing him, is more than smart enough to know exactly what he's doing. He can hide behind the hair, and the facial fuzz, the tattoos painted down his jugular and – god - across his belly, hide behind the fucking kilt, but he’s still Jensen – he never becomes the character he plays once the camera stops rolling. It’s Jensen under all this.

It’s Jensen who wants this.

It’s Jensen who hasn’t bothered to take his boots off. Who’s been taunting him with photos of his fucking *transformation* for days. Who provoked him here after months of silence. Who is hard, and sweating, and reaching for Jared.

So Jared doesn’t reply, doesn’t say a word, just pushes Jensen back with a hand planted on his chest, just grabs at his thigh again with his other hand and fucking pulls him, flips him over – a sort of weird judo for the horny and angry - and barely avoids a boot in the face. Not that he’d agree to Jensen pulling them of.

Not that Jensen is offering.

That Jensen has turned over answers just a few more questions.

Which is good, since Jared knows he’s running pretty much on instinct now, curling himself over Jensen’s back to sniff and lick and bite at the back of his neck. And the smell, the taste, the way Jensen pushes up and back so they are lined right up has him panting, grinding his hips down, feeling like – fuck – he’s definitely going to explode.

And exploding right now would be bad, so he pulls away just a bit, held up on his knees. Enough to rub a hand under the edge of the kilt, across the back of Jensen’s thigh and over his rump, the pad of his thumb grazing the hairs behind Jensen’s sack, brushing where they all meet, all soft damp hair, and then up until he hits the crease, moist with sweat. Stroking there makes Jensen buck, makes Jensen push back against Jared hand.

Which makes Jared push harder. Makes him lean in and growl ‘Quit that’ against the shell of Jensen’s ear, then take in the slight shudder in response, the way Jensen’s jaw shifts against the very edge of his touch. Jared moves his hand back and away, and Jensen stays shakingly still. His hand shifts and gropes for the tube that he knows is around here somewhere, and then when it’s found, brings it to his mouth and unscrews the cap with his teeth because really he doesn’t want to move, can’t shift his other hand away from beside Jensen’s face, holding him up, so instead he fumbles and pushes the lube messily against his fingers – can feel it dripping out from between them, making Jensen’s skin slick and greasy as his slides his hand back up.

Two fingers in and Jared can feel the raw scrape of beard against his other hand as Jensen arches his neck down – chin against his chest – and then up, back as far as he can go. He can feel the buzzshudder of Jensen trying to stay still, the flex of muscles that grab at Jared’s fingers as he bends and shifts them. He feels too hot in his clothes, pulsing and burning up at the slight noises, the huffs of air, the sounds trapped in Jensen’s throat that don’t seem to want to come out.

The pulse in Jensen’s neck hammers beneath his tongue as he licks at it and then he’s pulling back, shifting down Jensen’s body to rest his head on the pillow of crumpled kilt fabric that’s bunched at Jensen’s hip, his elbow pulled tight against his body, his wrist arcing back and forth as his fingers shift in and out. Further away, Jensen’s more vocal, and Jared can feel the rumble through his cheek, through his bones. He’s grinding his hip – against nothing – just steady and in time with his hand and everything inside him screams _fuckfuck_ over and over and over until he can’t stand it anymore and he has to pull back and scrabble at his jeans – pull them down, restrictive around his thighs - grab at and then bite at the silver foil, half hidden in a bedding fold, and – cool air released – wrap himself up behind the safety of a condom and lube.

Jensen’s hips arch at the loss of touch, breath-stutters and he looks around, locking eyes with Jared for a second as he shifts on the bed, a steadying hand back on Jensen’s rump, and Jared can’t help himself, lines himself up hip to hip, then bends as if in prayer - in supplication - and licks at the shiny taught skin above Jensen’s hole. Licks lower, despite the bitter taste of the lube, despite everything, just to feel the knot of muscle against his tongue, feel the buck of Jensen’s hips, the burr of his groan through his flesh and bones. A _fuckfuckfuck_ of his own that makes Jared move, wrap a hand around Jensen’s chest, wrap his body back along Jensen’s spine, and slowly press himself inside, pulled inside by Jensen’s push back, by the suck of Jensen’s muscles against his flesh until they are locked together, the exposed strip of Jared’s stomach pressed against the bunched up kilt.

He feels – _fuck_ – he feels.

Dizzy, and tight and like he might fall, and that means shifting, one hand from his chest to Jensen’s ass, and the other palm pushed back into the bed near his face – a hand Jensen rubs his beard-shave against as he moves, as he shifts, arches back and up, counterpoint to the stuttered thrusts Jared can just about manage. His face, buried back in the curve of Jensen’s neck, his nose, pushed against the tattoo-lines, biting – worshiping – at the muscles of Jensen’s shoulder, and he moves and moves and fills himself up with everything he has been wanting and needing. His calves shift, stutter over the edge of Jensen’s boots, real and right fucking there, even through Jared’s creased, bunched up jeans – burning an image of what they must look like, the two of them, here and now – in the back of Jared’s mind.

He can feel as Jensen shifts, up and back, over and over, but also twisting to free one of his hands, his shoulder braced against Jared’s stretched out arm - his teeth biting at Jared’s fingers - to press his palm across his own chest and then down, down. Jared knows what Jensen is about to do, and it’s another thought added to the jumble that pulses just under his skin.

Touching himself changes Jensen’s thrusts, a confusion between what he wants and what he needs, muscles pulled in tight, enough to make Jared sob out his breath, blind to everything but Jensen, to the build that pulls him closer and closer. It overbalances him, his elbow unlocking and dropping them both to the mattress, hips barely managing to stay in the air, to keep moving, slapping against each other, and Jared’s fingers shift, half-push their way into Jensen’s mouth, warm and held tight around his lips, sucked against the pad of his tongue, and that’s it, too much, too high and close and Jared comes, whites out in a sputter of involuntary thrusts and shudders, bites, his teeth, his lips in Jensen’s hair, his eyes seeing nothing but blue and Jensen and Jensen and…

Jensen is pushing back against him, but Jared is bone tired and heavy, and right this second it’s hard to care. But Jensen is still moving, pushing harder, frustrated maybe. Jared can feel his shoulder, his arm as it moves, and has enough energy left to shift his hand from Jensen’s ass, across his hip, to settle around Jensen’s fingers. His thumb pushes against the flesh of Jensen’s palm, then his fingers curl around Jensen’s sack, around the root of his cock, rubbing at the hard lump of muscle, burning hot and wet and through the brain fuzz, the need to just fucking sleep. He can feel Jensen buck, Jensen pant inches from his face, see Jensen’s eyes screw shut, feel his jaw flex and Jared’s fingers slip from his mouth as he comes, shaking, jolting. Wrecked.

The rest comes out broken, a slow syrup strobe of moments when Jared’s eyes are actually open. He shifts on his back by touch alone, arms outstretched, seeing nothing, and Jensen is a hard damp line that radiates heat down the length of his body. When Jared opens one eye a fraction – after who knows how much time has passed? – he watches as Jensen strokes out his contact lenses with the pad of his thumb, watches him brush the small crumpled nothings onto the bedside table, before Jared finds himself pulled back again into the dark of his own thoughts. He fumbles with the condom, pulls it off and – for want of a better place – drops it off the side off the bed.

Jensen moves and Jared can feel it, legs scuffling together, the thuds – one, two – of boots as they hit the floor, the dip and scrabble as Jensen shifts across the bed, and the soft low laugh that huffs out onto the back of Jared’s thigh as Jensen pulls his jeans and shorts the rest of the way down. Warm hands wrap around Jared’s ankles, at the heel of one sneaker and then the next, thud thud, followed by the crumpled remains of his clothing, and then Jensen is back, a boneless slump by his chest. The rest is lost to sleep.

\---

Buzzing wakes him, buzzing and someone moving on the bed. It takes a moment, a beat.

Jensen.

And then he remembers everything, swallows it down, already hard, warm and sleepy and strange. Half clothed and exposed.

When he opens his eyes Jensen is sprawled on the edge of the bed, his phone in his hand, looking suitably debauched, still in his kilt and tee, with one flecked grey woollen sock that has slouched down his calf. He’s smiling, heavy lidded, and a memory hits Jared hard – this one time, one of many, meeting up at LAX at like 5am or something. After a night of shots instigated by Steve, Jensen had spent much of the flight asleep, his head lolling on Jared’s shoulder, and it had been so hard, but so important, to keep still and just let him sleep, just because he’d needed it.

Jared smiles back, his breath slowing, easing, despite his lingering embarrassment.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Jensen scratches his chin with one hand, and slides the phone onto the nightstand with the other. Despite everything, how he looks is still weird, especially in the bright crack of morning light. Unreal. But Jared knows he’s under there, beneath everything else. In the curl of his smile. In his eyes.

From his sprawl on the bed, he watches Jensen get up and go out through a door, and after a few seconds hears a toilet flush and a shower start running. Morning sounds. And then Jensen’s back, pulling at the sock, plucking at the buckles on the kilt, and Jared wants to move, _has_ to move, so he moves. Off the bed, and meets Jensen in the middle of the room, his hands reaching out to grab at Jensen’s waist.

Jensen holds his arms up and away from his body, and the buckles make Jared feel sluggish and unco-ordinated. They stick when he tries to undo them. When he leans down to get a better look, Jensen’s hands end up in his hair, round the back of his neck, across and down his shoulders while he tugs and pulls, and he remembers the scene in the hall the night before, feels it flush against his skin, filling him up.

Eventually the kilt unwraps from around Jensen’s hips and he stands - like Jared – in nothing but the tee-shirt, looking ridiculous and sleepy, and young.

And equally _hard_ , which makes it suddenly difficult not to laugh.

Impossible even, and Jared’s shoulders shake, Jensen pulls a face and then they’re kissing, and Jensen is pressed tight against Jared’s hip, brushing along his skin, Jared’s hands are full of warm flesh.

“Come shower, man.” Jensen’s words are a breath across Jared’s face, and then he’s pulling at Jared’s tee, forcing his arms straight up in the air. Before he has chance to move again, Jensen sweeps his palms down Jared’s chest, a thumb against one of his nipples, and hand over his belly, sliding low and back, along the length of Jared and it’s hard to think of anything, and so easy to be shifted about by the fingers that eventually settle around his hip bone. Jared just shuffles his feet when necessary and lets Jensen move him –

“Hup.”

\- until the hot water hits his back, and Jensen pushes back him against the shower wall.

He watches through the shower spray, Jensen’s arms flexing as he pulls his own tee shirt over his head, stares at the tattoos as Jensen steps into the shower, and crowds in against him, how they just end, cut off where they’re covered by cotton. Half formed designs, the ghost of shapes and curls that were never there in the first place. Jensen allows himself to be moved, his head to the side while Jared’s hand wraps around his elbow to expose the underside of his bicep, and Jared’s fingers brush against the marks. They disintergrate under his touch, painting his fingers with tiny flecks of black.

When he looks up, Jensen’s mohawk – *Priestly’s* mohawk – is plastered to the crown of his head like a freak center parting or something, and Jared dips and laughs into Jensen’s shoulder, teeth gently gnawing at the bone. Jensen laughs along with him and he feels lighter, connected. He can’t stop touching Jensen’s skin – accidental movements that he can pretend aren’t happening, over and over.

Long after the point where pretending would work.

“I missed you.” It is calm and low, pressed against Jared’s neck because there really isn’t room to move, and Jared wonders if he even needs to pretend any more?

\---

They take Jared’s car so there’s room for the dogs, and Jensen keeps twisting in his seat to watch them, to flap his fingers and get their attention. Jared catches glimpses of Jensen looking almost Jensen-like in worn jeans and a feedstore cap.

In the makeup trailer Jensen dumps a plastic bag on the side, before sliding into one of the chairs, and Jared feels himself flush as he realises what must be inside – the remains of yesterday’s costume. Defiled. He distracts himself with a new wall of photos, smaller than the one in Vancouver, but big enough for an eight week shoot. The one in Vancouver’s probably packed away in boxes, awaiting their return, and as he thinks this, there’s a moment where he suddenly, fiercely misses Jeannie and Shannon, Kim and that AD, Dave. Misses that little world they’d made between them, stuck together with exhaustion and cold and the lingering buzz of long gone sugar-highs.

Jared thinks about home, while he watches as someone carefully turns Jensen’s face with the tips of her fingers. There’s a buzz-whine of clippers shaving all the strangeness off, the mohawk down to a barely there grade one, and his beard and sideburns back to pretty much where they should be. That *Someone* is Nancy from Oklahoma who tells him she has a big dumb labrador-mix of her own at home, as Jared smiles and nods and watches Jensen smile back at him through the mirror when his head is turned in the right directions. They are small smiles that start from his eyes, and when they are done Jensen’s face is fresh and pink and he looks younger, wholy Jensen. Jensen returned.

Moments later there’s banging, a PA pokes her head through the half open door, and Jensen is being handed over from one department to another, on and on; it’s a familiar routine that Jared knows only too well. He shrugs and nods as Jensen passes by, then there’s a hand on his shoulder, Jensen ducking down, and Jared can see the pale edge of his contacts, see the freckles that have multiplied over the bridge of his nose in the summer sun.

“Come get me later?” Jared nods, and Jensen smiles, crinkled and wide. The California sun is shining as he pushes the trailer door and steps outside.

\---

Jared sits back and closes his eyes. Listens to Nancy as she reorganises her space, gets on with her day.

It’s early.

He might go running on the beach. The mutts need food and so does he. He might go home and sleep for a while, crashed out on his bed, or piled on the sofa amongst his dogs.

He’s got time.

Anything is possible.


End file.
